being yourself

Let’s say you feel frustrated and unhappy and can’t really put your finger on the “why” of it. Let’s also say that you’re someone who’s always putting the needs of other people ahead of your own, but you wouldn’t call it that. You’d call it “doing what I’m supposed to be doing” or “what I have to do right now”. Or “love”.

But there’s that niggling frustration, every single day. The sense that there’s something you’re not doing that you could be doing. Something that would be delightful and fun. Nourishing even. You just can’t see a way to do that AND do the thing you’re supposed to be doing.

So, let me ask you this:

If you went on a picnic with three of the dearest people in your life, and you opened the picnic basket and there were only three sandwiches, what would you do?

Would you say, “Oh, it’s okay. I love you so much and want you to be fed and happy, so eat the sandwiches. I’ll just sit here and pass you the mustard and a napkin and anything else you need.”

Would you squish down your own hunger so the hunger of others could be satisfied?

(Plenty of us do this every single day. We do it because we have heard that parenting, partnering, working, or serving needs to look a very specific way. We let that strict definition shape a box that’s increasingly smaller and harder to live in.)

(And sometimes we live inside the teeny tiny box because we’re not sure who we would be outside of it. We’re not sure if we’re exactly comfortable with how big we might become if we were to step outside.)

(And, then again, we worry that the person who’s not having a whole sandwich because of our needs might be mad or resentful. That’s awkward, uncomfortable and possibly fatal to the relationship.)

(And we are doing this in the first place because relationships with others are so important. More important, in fact, than our relationship with ourselves.)

(And we might have learned that love looks like doing stuff for other people all the time, regardless of the impact on ourselves.)

Back to the picnic scenario. You’re hungry and there aren’t enough sandwiches. Your gut says to let other people have what is there because it’s appropriate, it’s right, it’s safe. But you’re starving, aren’t you?

Might you consider a simple solution of dividing each sandwich into four equal parts so that everyone could have some? So everyone could be nourished? Including you?

It’s time to ease your frustration and own your right to your own well-being, my friends. And while asking for your portion might be scary, the odds are it will turn out beautifully. Because I know for a fact that the three people you love most in the world want nothing more than to share their sandwich with you.

Missed me the last couple of weeks? Yeah, it’s been frustrating for me, too. Try as I might, I’ve been unable to write anything I felt good about.

And that’s because there’s a very large, very gray, very wrinkly elephant in the room. Standing right there between us.

See, it’s like there are competing voices in my head. One says “write things people who might hire you will like because you are a business person, after all.” And another voice says, “Wow, writing like that feels contrived and inauthentic. Don’t do that.”

After some reflection and journaling and a few macaroons (the kind dipped in dark chocolate, if you’re interested), I’ve realized that when I merely show up and show myself, things tend to work out just fine.So that’s my intention with this space.

It’s a crazy world out there and – elephant alert – I want to write about how to cope and how to manage dealing with it all.

Here’s this week’s critical topic: How can you express yourself – how can you show up and be seen – in times like these?

Times where partisanship is applauded more than cooperation.

Times when trolls with screen courage unleash blistering vitriol at the slightest provocation.

Times when you’re not sure if you can take one more news report, one more headline.

But I’m here to tell you that if you swallow your voice, if you make yourself mouse-like, if you keep your head down and mind your own business, you will feel increasingly more awful than you feel now.

You will begin to feel as though you’re vanishing.

I work with clients who are Democrats, and clients who are Republicans, and clients who are independents. And some who live in Europe, Latin American or Asia. All of them – each and every one – are stressed by the tenor and tone of even chatting with people we’ve always thought of as friends these days.

Want to know how I try to navigate?

First, I never assume that anyone believes what I believe or interprets situations exactly how I do. As Stephen Covey suggests in his classic Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, I seek to understand and then to be understood.

This means that sometimes I get to say, “I get what you’re saying. I don’t happen to agree – can I tell you why?”

The best case scenario is when they say, “Yes, I’d love to hear your perspective.” And if they say, no, they’re not at all interested in what I have to say…I move along.

Second, I remind myself all the time that I am a learner. Curiosity is my hallmark and my day is not quite complete if I haven’t satisfied that particular interest. With that framework, I can hear your perspective with and open heart and mind…

Unless, third, you are voicing hateful, exclusionary, racist beliefs. If that happens, I will tell you directly that you are wrong and I will not stand for slurs, epithets or threats. And then I get myself out of your presence.

Because what we need in our world today is far less hate and far more cooperation.

We need people to show up and show themselves – the best parts of themselves – as we find solutions to all the problems we face.

I’m going to do my part in my own little patch. Join me by doing what you can in your own patch. And, patch by patch, we’ll become the change we seek.

I remember showing up at a coaching conference where I was a featured speaker. Milling with the crowd before the event, I fell into conversation with a small group. One of the women leaned forward with a puzzled look on her face and said, “I’m sorry – I didn’t get your name”.

I smiled, extended my hand and introduced myself, “Michele Woodward.”

She looked even more puzzled. “Michele Woodward?” She cocked her head curiously and said, “You sound…taller on the phone.”

I had no snappy response to that one, believe me.

Turns out she’d participated in several webinars and teleclasses I’d led and had decided I was a towering, formidable glamazon.

If I had been her coach, I would have asked her to explore why she needed to make me into a mythical character. What thoughts did she have about what it takes to be successful as a coach? How were those ideas perhaps holding her back?

Sometimes we simply can’t ask ourselves those questions because we’re so caught up in our anxiety and pre-conceived notions.

That’s when a coach can be helpful.

People ask me all the time, “Why do you do what you do?” Why all this “coaching”, this writing, this speaking? Why are you not taller?

(OK, I’ve only been asked that last one once.)

When I think about my “why”, it comes down to this: People are often so close to their situation that they can’t get any perspective. They’re so close that they can’t see context and go on to create a lot of angst and worry which then saps their energy and keeps them stuck in the same endless, grinding loop – making no progress.

I know how to fix this.

I provide objective feedback, an outside eye, which breaks up the frustration of being stuck. And creates forward movement.

It works because I have no dog in your fight – I don’t care where you work, how much money you make, who reports to you, where you buy your shoes – I just want you to be fully yourself and do whatever you’re here to do.

It must have been in high school where I first heard the famous Thoreau quote:

“The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.”

At fifteen or sixteen, I’m sure I had no clue what Thoreau was getting at. For one, I was not a man, and, for me, “desperation” meant calling that cute boy from third period and hanging up in a fluster the moment he answered the phone.

Today, although I am still not a man, I have a better sense of Thoreau’s sentiment.

And I see it quite often in people who come to me for coaching. They will tell me that things are stuck, or stale. That they can’t seem to make progress, can’t get a break, can’t overcome the forces aligned against them.

So, they stay where they are, hung up and quietly (or not so quietly) desperate.

When you think about the last hundred years in the developed world, there’s been such a seismic shift in the way most of us live our lives. Then, so many of us were union members who worked in factories at the mercy of time clocks and management bullies. The average worker learned to report, do his or her job and keep out of the cross hairs of the suits with their time-wasting “improvements”.

Today, with the shift to a more service-based economy, fewer and fewer people are making their living using their muscles and brawn. Jobs today are about knowledge, customer service and adaptability.

Yet, if you grew up the child or grandchild of a working person, you might just hold onto some of the working people vs. suits sentiment.

What’s harder today is that you’re probably more like “them” than your grandparents ever were.

But the us vs. them dynamic lingers. So often I see people who still wait for permission from “them” to come up with a new idea. Who won’t dare act without approval. Who need to have a supervisor to blame when they’re stuck.

These are the truly desperate people.

And they don’t have to be.

Now, more than ever, you have to be the architect of your own career. Those who wait for an authority figure to step forward and bestow blessings and permissions will miss opportunities.

This, my friends, is guaranteed.

The other day I heard a story about a young woman who’s in her first job right out of college. She’s utterly entry-level, yet heard about a new project the brass was excited about. She did some thinking and came up with an idea, based on what she could gather about it. She wrote it up and sent it to the big boss. Who kindly wrote back to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

So, she thought some more. Brought in a friend who was also lower level and together they brainstormed another approach.

She submitted again.

And her concept is the one the very large, innovative organization is going to implement.

I told this story to someone recently who said, rather bitterly, “Millennials! They don’t know their place!”

But that’s not it at all.

No, that 23-year old woman knows that she’s not going to live a life of quiet desperation. Not her.

She’s in charge of her career, not anyone else. And to get where she knows she wants to go – she’s going to get herself there.

It’s an important lesson whether you’re twenty and just starting out, or sixty and feeling very stuck.

And the lesson is this: quiet desperation is a choice you can certainly make. But you can also choose something else.

You can choose to stop waiting for permission and start creating opportunities.

About a million years ago in the seventh grade, I met a small, observant girl with dark bangs. We both played the flute, we both liked to write, we both had a fairly sly sense of humor.

Which meant, for middle schoolers, that we were slightly beyond potty humor. Only slightly.

Cady Coleman was someone I admired in school because she was wicked smart and had the kind of industrious work habits my parents could only dream of for me. Through middle and high school, we often found ourselves in the same science, history and literature classes, but over time Cady went deep into the sciences and I went deep into writing. (I only took physics, as an example, because there were 23 boys in the class and only two girls. That particular sort of math still happens to appeal to me.)

After high school, we went our separate ways – Cady to MIT to study chemistry, me to Virginia Tech to study writing.

Around our tenth reunion time, I learned that Cady had become an astronaut. A real, honest-to-goodness astronaut. At NASA.

And you know what? I wasn’t that surprised, because in my mind Cady embodied all the characteristics you’d want in an astronaut – smart, resourceful, resilient and diligent.

Over the years, Cady has been up on three missions – she’s the 333rd human to go into space – including a six-month stint in the International Space Station. For that mission, she was launched the day after her 50th birthday proving that age has nothing to do with anything whatsoever.

Cady was my guest this past week on the WiseWork radio show, and she was her usual charming, self-deprecating, wise, insightful self. Would you like to listen to the thirty minute show?

When Cady describes what it’s like to be launched, what it’s like to orbit the Earth and to see our bright blue ball from space – you can sense her awe and passion.

When she talks about how her family couldn’t afford college but how she made it work for herself, you’ll see grit and determination.

When she talks about the road she walked to get to the place where she could join the astronaut corps, you’ll be inspired.

When she talks about how she leaned in, you’ll be intrigued.

And when someone walks into her office looking for cake right in the middle of our interview, you’ll hear her kindness as she directs her colleague to the fridge.

I am all about working smart with heart, and Cady Coleman exemplifies how any of us can dare greatly enough to reveal our passion for our work. And feel fulfilled as a result.

Thousands of people have listened to the show since last Tuesday. It’s really making an impact – and for that I’m exceedingly grateful, because Cady’s story deserves telling. You can listen by going to BlogTalkRadio or iTunes.

Cady – that flute playing, science-loving, funny, smart seventh grader who sat one desk over from me in so many classes – went on to become one of a handful of American women who’ve been in space. What a privilege it is to see, firsthand, what’s possible for any of us who dare to work smart, with heart.

I started writing this blog in October of 2006. Week in, week out, regular as clockwork. Two hundred and forty-four weeks, and I have never accepted a guest post – until today.

I think you’ll like the writer (of course, I absolutely love the writer). Please meet Grace Woodward, a 15 year old high school freshman who has something to say.

Being yourself is one of the hardest things to do.

Especially as a teenager.

Everyone is changing and growing up and there’s an unspoken idea that you suddenly have to mature and deal with a lot of responsibilities. This idea comes from everywhere. My parents expect more of me, school does too, and saying something stupid in front of my friends is a horrifying concept.

But at the same time I’m trying to discover myself and live the way that I want to. Whenever I find myself in a spot where I feel like I’m doing things that don’t reflect the person that I want to be, I remember my friend Will.

I met Will Prince in sixth grade. We had some classes together and I remember him as a smart, kind guy. Will was an avid Red Sox fan, and was usually wearing something that showed his love for the game. In seventh grade we also had classes together and would have conversations about baseball regularly.

One thing that really sticks in my mind is when I walked out of math, after talking to Will, and thinking about how he was exactly who he wanted to be. He seemed happy all the time and had a strong passion for life. Will was only in seventh grade for a few months before he was diagnosed with stage four lymphoma. Although Will and I weren’t the best of friends, I was devastated. He was such a sweet guy and always had a smile on his face. I talked to our mutual friends and helped to organize a fundraiser to raise money for lymphoma research. I even wrote to the Red Sox.

Looking back I wonder why I felt so connected to this boy that I knew for such a short time. And I realized that it was because Will was confident in himself. He did what he did because that’s what made him happy. He lived life the way that he wanted to. I was constantly asking around to see how he was doing. His progress was amazing, and he seemed as though he would pull through. He was let out of the hospital to go see all of his favorite monuments and sights in D.C. Sadly, that was the last weekend of his young life. It made me smile however, to know that Will spent his last hours seeing his favorite places with those that he loved.

As the tears rolled down my face and the words of “Hey Jude” filled the church at his funeral, I remembered what a truly honest, kind, and happy person Will was. And as the second anniversary of his death, April 19th, rolls around this week I’ll remember all the baseball talk we shared and how fun and insightful Will was. I’ll also remember how Will lived every day to the fullest and that in his twelve years he left a lasting impact on all those around him.

Will Prince will never be forgotten.

And thinking of him helps me to realize that my life is mine. And that I should live in a way that makes me happy.

And the secret to happiness? Doing what gets you fired up.

Leaving a mark on those around you. Doing what makes you wake up in the morning with a smile, because you never know what could happen tomorrow.